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<h2> JOY SUPREME </h2>
<p>The birds are pirates of her notes,<br/>
The blossoms steal her face's light;<br/>
The stars in ambush lie all day,<br/>
To take her glances for the night.<br/>
Her voice can shame rain-pelted leaves;<br/>
Young robin has no notes as sweet<br/>
In autumn, when the air is still,<br/>
And all the other birds are mute.<br/>
<br/>
When I set eyes on ripe, red plums<br/>
That seem a sin and shame to bite,<br/>
Such are her lips, which I would kiss,<br/>
And still would keep before my sight.<br/>
When I behold proud gossamer<br/>
Make silent billows in the air,<br/>
Then think I of her head's fine stuff,<br/>
Finer than gossamer's, I swear.<br/>
<br/>
The miser has his joy, with gold<br/>
Beneath his pillow in the night;<br/>
My head shall lie on soft warm hair,<br/>
And miser's know not that delight.<br/>
Captains that own their ships can boast<br/>
Their joy to feel the rolling brine—<br/>
But I shall lie near her, and feel<br/>
Her soft warm bosom swell on mine.<br/></p>
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